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“They’re called pens, Dio. What do you use them for?” Sweetly, so sweetly, the redhead inquired. She deliberately reached up a hand to scritch behind Poe’s cap. Without any other orders, the black pen had settled in its usual perch behind her ear, while the rest had ducked down to roost in her purse. It spun its cap at the touch, resulting in a short plastic-on-plastic squeak that could be labeled happy chirping.

Really, that comment was just sick. Not to mention bestiality, in Maxine’s world.

They got off the train at Fulton, to avoid switching lines. In winter she would have hopped the A line in a heartbeat, to spend an extra few blocks in subterranean warmth. On a day like this? She could stand a stroll out under the sun, on the arm of a certain brown-haired young man.

Particularly when he was trying to teach her Chinese, with an adorable degree of diligence. Particularly when he was trying to teacher her Chinese with a British accent. There might be a reason her pronunciation just kept getting worse. That, and he made the cutest faces when she butchered things. Like he was longing for a wall to bash his head against, or a bottle of aspirin to overdose on.

They arrived at the chapel in good order, which he took as an excuse to declare defeat in her lessons, without so many words. The little phrase book simply got tucked into a back pocket, with a certain ‘...and that ordeal is over’ finality.

St. Paul’s Chapel stood before them, on its own little plot of green land amidst the usual sky scrappers. If she peered too closely down Fulton, she might even catch sight of the twin tower’s memorial. Maxine didn’t peer. She led the Brit’s captive arm—and the rest of him, presumably—into the chapel yard. It was a graveyard, really, but gravestones this old always struck her as peaceful: these people were dead, and so was everyone who had ever known them. When there was no one left to morn, there was nothing sad left. Just blocks of stone with dates and inscriptions for tourists to coo over, and the occasional distant relative to proudly point out to friends.

“I think I’ve got a great-great-great uncle in here somewhere,” she said conversationally. Then, with little ado; “So. Why are you letting me follow you?” And more than follow. This was, after all, coming from the redhead still loosely draped over his arm.

Was that? Oh yes, it was. A smirk—a quick, quiet, fleeting smirk—from the lion man, for her video-taking habits. Or possibly for the grumpy Knight’s staring role in particular. She smirked back, if he caught it; a little don’t you love to see him suffer? twitch of the lips. Then she tucked away her camera, and smiled just for Gawain.

“You’re much cuter this way.” Whether she meant ‘as a boy’ or ‘as a grumpy pants,’ she didn’t bother to specify.

She didn’t take offense to any birds flicked by her other grumpy pants, of course. He was sick, and that’s what sick boys do: act like jerks. She’d taken care of her big brother when he was sick often enough to know. The important thing was that he took her advice.

That’s right, boys. Maxine knows best.

“We’re now approaching our final descent. Please return seat backs and trays to their upright positions. The local time is 10 PM. Weather is cloudy, 63 degrees...”

The seatbelt sign lit up above them; the clouds came up to meet them. Maxine let out a little whoop as the whole plane seemed to lurch, and peered out the window. She’d always loved take offs and landings: they were the time when you could really tell you were flying.

"We expect some minor turbulence..."

Paper's domesticated form is official: Paper Dogs will soon hunt on MRO.

“Seattle?” Maxine repeated. “Are you sure?” She waited a moment, with eyebrows raised.

Then she reached into her pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She held it up between two fingers, with a smirk. “I’ve got the address.”

An address, at least. An address where Gloria Kingston of Wolf News’ Seattle office put Ms. Morris at within the last week. She hadn’t exactly been alone, though.

“What else did he show you?” Maxine asked, somewhat less enthusiastically.

All her sources pegged Gillian as hanging out with quite the dangerous crowd.

“Caligo!” The woman gasped, rushing towards Nate to scoop the baby from his arms and hug it close. The baby squirmed and stretched its hands towards the ground, where the octoclip was writhing in what might have been confusion. Its tentacles tentatively poked in the air, searching for the mysterious force that had pried them loose of the babe. “Oh thank you, thank you!”

The spiders gathered around her, protective and pleased. Some of them sat adoringly on Nate’s running shoes, or leaned against his legs like cats. From behind came the coup de grace: a truck-sized bro hug, from the spider that had chased him and Maxine. Its mandibles clacked affectionately above his hair.

With a bit more fussing, involving more arms than Nate was probably used to, the woman set off. Clearly, it was time for her to leave this nightmare of a park. The light returned as she took the baby away; the spiders trailed after her, like happy dogs.

All except for one.

Rex was still on the ground. To be specific: it was on Nate’s shadow, puzzling out a way to wrathfully wrap itself around an object that currently had no graspable dimensions. Tied up in two of its tentacles, making distressed clicking noises, was its new pet spider.

The spider stretched one hairy leg after the woman’s back, its eyes many and soulful.

“Nate? Nate!” Maxine called, from not far off. “Where are you? I found a cop! Nate?”

((ooc: For reference: description of Alister’s way of reading the future, here.))

From where Maxine was sitting, there was nothing flashy or earth-shattering. The blonde boy nodded, and reached up to lower his sunglasses: then he looked into Mirror’s eyes. She stood behind them both, watching for something in their faces, and eying the magnet. Did the boy usually carry that?

Under the table, Rex reached out a tentacle, and worked to diligently tie Maya’s hands together, should she happen to be distracted enough to let him.

“Why yes,” she said breathlessly, “yes we should.”

It wasn’t the kind of breathless she’d prefer, given the cute man holding her hand, but as long as the spider stayed stunned, she would live. They ran. Miraculously, they seemed to leave the spider behind them. In fact... from the way her paperclips were swimming, their paths unimpaired—

“I think we’re almost out of it.” The air even seemed to be clearing out, easing back from its ominous press on their shoulders; she could see morning sunlight up ahead, and what might have been the street. So whatever this was, it was only in Central Park.

They’d get out, tip off the police, and go laugh about this in a cozy little dinner where he’d fall madly in love with—

“Help! Someone help! It’s got my child!”

An unladylike phrase came out of Maxine’s mouth. The woman’s voice was, of course, screaming from the heart of the darkness. Of course.